


Sapphire

by yeaka



Category: Star Trek, Star Trek: Deep Space Nine
Genre: Established Relationship, Ficlet, Nonbinary Character, Other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-03
Updated: 2015-01-03
Packaged: 2018-03-05 01:53:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,836
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3100688
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yeaka/pseuds/yeaka
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Garak’s invited for a drink in Vic’s lounge.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sapphire

**Author's Note:**

  * For [axolotlparty](https://archiveofourown.org/users/axolotlparty/gifts).



> A/N: Fill for deathbypowerpointpresentation’s “nonbinary bashir presenting femininely and singing at Vic’s lounge” request on [my tumblr](http://yeaka.tumblr.com/). Special thanks to abbeyjewel for betaing! 
> 
> Disclaimer: I don’t own Star Trek or any of its contents, and I’m not making any money off this.

_Bashir 62_ is a strange program, but then, so are most of Julian’s. So are most humans’. But at least the ‘Bond’ simulations were luxurious and entertaining. This lounge is grimy, feels like it’s fogged, dirty around the edges. The colours are all in the bland brown range, the textures thick and unenlightened, the holo-characters intensely uninspired. Most of them do nothing but drink and smoke—a curious, self-destructive habit—while others actually _laugh_ at the poor fool ‘entertaining’ on the stage.

Elim, of course, _understands_ most of the jokes; he simply doesn’t find them funny. But the pre-programmed ‘comedian’ still has a mindless grin plastered on his face, and he actually has the audacity to bow after each round of insincere applause. With a club-like microphone clutched tightly in his sweaty palm, he paces back and forth over the fake wood in front of a dusty curtain, creased and wrinkled. Once, the performer catches his feet in the microphone’s long cord and stumbles nearly to the floor, which elicits laughter from the other patrons. This, Elim understands least of all, for the holo-characters laugh as if he’s told his best joke of the night, when really he’s just highlighted his incompetence.

Why Julian wants to meet him here, Elim has no idea, but given the choice of chasing an elusive lover across the uncertainty of a holo-program or sitting to toil away in his tedious shop, he’ll choose Julian every time.

He’ll choose Julian over most things. The glass of kanar on Elim’s table is woefully tasteless, but at least it gives him something to do, an excuse to look away as the bumbling entertainment bustles off the stage. The patrons of Vic’s lounge shout and whistle their delight, while Elim sips away at his failed excuse for synthehol. Were there anyone _real_ in the lounge, he’d don a lazy smile and clap right along with them, ever one to slip into mystery and lies. But where there’s no one to present for, he withdraws his presence and coils into his glass.

He pays the stage little attention as the curtains draw aside. If this is Julian’s way of excusing lateness, it isn’t a very good one. Elim has no desire to watch another show. Until, of course, he realizes exactly what that show is.

For when the curtains part, the spotlights flash on, and they light up the stunning figure of Dr. Julian Bashir, standing center-stage. Julian’s brown eyes, lit up with a burst of hazel, pin Elim right into his seat, and the thin smirk that weaves its confident way across Julian’s lips leaves Elim with the feeling of being pinched. He has to chastise himself for ever thinking this reality— _Julian’s_ reality—any less valuable than it is.

Somehow, the rest of the cheap, sleazy bar doesn’t seem quite so offensive with Julian at its helm. At the back of the small, round stage, generic humans in tuxedo-suits not unlike the one Elim’s chosen to wear—merely for Julian’s pleasure, of course—are poised in rickety chairs with simplistic instruments in their hands. A tall metallic stand rises in the front, holding another microphone at its tip, level with Julian’s poised mouth.

Julian, though far more complicated than all other Terrans Elim’s ever met, allows themself to pass for male on the station, to accept male pronouns, to dress, for the most part, as one might expect of a human man. But in truth, Julian’s spectrum is far broader, one not particularly burdened with the social construct of Teran gender, and tonight, they seem to be presenting themself with a show of femininity.

This subtle complexity is, undeniably, one of the things that draws Elim so fiercely to the marvel of _Julian Bashir,_ and tonight, it’s more clear than ever that Elim’s made a wise choice. The long, flowing blue dress that drapes its way down Julian’s trim figure clings to all the right spots, smoothing over graceful lines and highlighting the tantalizing reach of curves, drawn taut across their chest and gathering minutely around their hips. When Julian shifts, the silken fabric shimmers in the light, glittering like stars and casting a glow over the rest of the dingy setting. It looks like the sort of thing that Elim could rip away in one go, and he’s always loved dresses for their more practical function—the ease of access to a waiting lover. The sleeves of Julian’s dress, ornately laced like expensive lingerie, slip tantalizingly down their shoulders, covering the brush of faint biceps. Julian’s caramel skin, the most delicious shade Elim’s ever seen, is made richer by the milky caress of the dress, and their face is showing a light touch of makeup—darkened lashes and shimmering lips and iridescent colour off the cheeks—to given an androgynous and _achingly_ pretty look. Despite all of his control, Elim’s grip tightens around his kanar, wishing, instead, that it were _Julian_ in his hands.

Julian, with delicate fingers and polished nails and the coordinated grace that only a healer could have, clutches to the microphone. There are no direct words, but there don’t need to be; Julian’s eyes are only for Elim, and for Elim, there is nothing else in this world that matters. The lounge lights dim, the thin column on the stage bringing Julian into sharper focus, and Julian breathes a reedy sigh into the microphone, testing the mark of its control.

That breath echoes through the room. It shivers into Elim’s ear like a promise, a peek at the delights to come; a breathless Julian reduced to bedroom noises is Elim’s favourite thing. He takes a final sip of his kanar just for show, letting his eyes fall away like his interest has yet to be captured, and then he places his glass on the table. He settles his palms in his lap, white cuffs slipping out the tips of his black sleeves, and he squares his shoulders with a smile.

Julian opens their mouth and starts to sing.

It doesn’t matter what. The words sink into Elim’s mind, long, drawn-out English things, unfiltered through the messiness of a translator because Elim knows everything of Julian, back three languages. He hears and files away each phrase that spills from Julian’s lips, but at first, the melody is what grabs him, and Julian’s voice is what he listens to, the deeper, breathy rumblings stretched to highs and lows and wavering in between. The number isn’t complicated, but like everything, Julian makes it so, drapes it with ever more layers for Elim to delight in untangling. Each changing decibel, each shifting tone, every little note, locks into Elim’s head to stay, to capture and replay in the dead of night, in the middle of the promenade, any time he finds himself staring at Julian’s pretty lips and daydreaming what can come out of them. Julian’s song is an art that can never belong to anyone else.

And yet, Julian is no singer. Elim, at the peak of his career, has heard better, in a clinical, objective sense. Not more alluring, not more to his... _tastes_. But more practiced, more skilled. Julian takes to it, as they take to everything, natural and easy perfection. Still, there are little nuances that could improve, cracks that Elim will teasingly bring up later to suggest that Julian try again, and again after that, perhaps take up a part-time hobby in sordid nightclub entertainment. Elim would attend every time. There’s little better than sitting in this audience, listening to Julian’s purred voice fill the air, watching their sensual hips sway slowly with the beat, their fingers caressing the stand and their lips glistening and parting wider to moan out the longer notes. Elim hasn’t seen anything so intoxicating in a long, long time.

Even then, nothing tops Julian. Julian’s lashes fall down across their cheeks, flushed face tilting down with the fading end of the song, the light catching their hair and silhouetting it like an aura. Julian’s grasp tightens around the microphone, and the last words of the song are cried out in an anguished, needy thrill-ride, something to make Elim perch on the edge of his seat, a wanting growl clawing at the base of his throat. Julian licks their lips as the song ends, then reopens dilated eyes to pierce Elim across the room. In this moment, even exile seems, remarkably, _worth it_.

Because what is the might of Cardassia against the beauty of Julian Bashir? If Elim could have them both, he would; he would parade his pretty prize down the Tarlak streets, right into the depths of Mila’s old home, just to take Julian in his childhood bed, hard enough to make the rafters shake.

The background music dies out, and the light goes with it, the band lost in the shadows. It leaves Julian, like a sultry sun in the black sky, giving the whole room life.

Elim, smirking at the sheer thought that this gorgeous creature is likely going home with _him_ , begins to clap. The audience follows, but theirs are more enthusiastic, hollow, while Elim’s applause are an unhurried, meaningful praise. Julian slinks to the edge of the stage and steps over the edge, hiking up their dress to reveal tall boots with glass heels. They clink across the floor as Julian draws closer, and for a moment, Elim’s mind is racing with thoughts—the clothes he could make, the dresses, the lingerie, the stockings and panties and nightgowns and harnesses verging more on elaborate fetish designs. Julian would be perfection in any one of them. In anything. As Julian reaches Elim’s table, they drawl, “Did you enjoy the show?”

Smiling hard enough to crinkle his eyes, Elim muses, “My dear, you’re a terrible singer. Fortunately, you’re a treasure to look at it.”

Julian laughs. They surely know that Elim, as usual, is full of lies, and Julian’s performance was a delight to be remembered. But it would shatter their game to say so, so Julian merely takes that last step forward, hands reaching to clutch at Elim’s shoulders.

And then Julian is draping themself across Elim’s lap, leaning against Elim’s chest, heavy and warm and confident, all those bio-engineered cells working to create a flawless being. One of Julian’s hands pets lazily back through Elim’s hair, and they tilt their head, brushing soft lips along Elim’s waiting mouth.

Elim, by then, is ravenous, and only manages to keep the kiss chaste by sheer force of will. The brute strength of Cardassian lovemaking is not something to start idly in a rickety chair. Carefully holding beneath Julian’s legs and the small of their back, Elim lifts to his feet, carrying his prize up with him.

Julian, clever minx, purrs, “Computer, empty the bar and give us a bed.” The program whirls to change around them, while Elim’s crotch stirs in response, anatomy shifting with the promise of bliss on the horizon.

Now, the real show’s about to start.


End file.
